Thursday, September 27, 2012

I've got a secret sickness. It makes me radioactive. You can't see it or smell it or feel it, but it will infect you if you get too close to me. You won't even know what it is. The easiest explanation would be, well, insanity, but that's not true. I'm perfectly sane, and everything I do is according to the utmost logic. It's just that you don't know the secret. My life is a lie. A big fat ugly lie. Well, there are parts of it that add up to a big fat ugly lie, anyway. A lot of it is good, but there is that secret part, like cancer, that isn't visible. Not until it's terminal and time is measured in days or hours or breaths. It's not terminal yet, but there are symptoms... but that's whats so great about the secret sickness. The symptoms are kind of befuddling to the casual observer, easily explained away. It's easy to read about the secret sickness, and sympathize, and say, 'Oh, ok, yeah, I understand, if I were involved I would be compassionate'. But it's not that way. It's more like, 'What the fuck is wrong with you? It's your fault, you're wrong, you you you, it's all you, you did it. You didn't get infected with the secret sickness, you went out and searched for it, so you're guilty. I hate you for it.'

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Sometimes late at night, when I get home after work and I'm tired from the walk, and I'm just ready to sleep, and that's all that matters to me at the end of the day is lying down and watching cartoons on the insides of my closed eyelids... sometimes, when I get home, after I've unlocked the door and walked through the kitchen, and taken my shoes off in the hallway so they don't squeak on the floor, and filled my water cup in the bathroom, and stand before the closed door to my bedroom, sometimes I imagine that my life is completely different right at that moment, and that I actually got married like we'd planned, and that when I open the bedroom door my wife will be in there, either sleeping or sitting up reading or doing something on her laptop or watching TV, and an imaginary feeling of happiness will congeal and last for about a second. It never lasts any longer than that. I figure that we get just about exactly a second to experience the happiness of our imaginations. It's not enough by a trillionfold to be real, but somehow it's enough to power a sadness that seems like it could last forever. Isn't that kind of stupid?

Doesn't it seem like I just harp and harp about this? The girlie heart breaky thing? Won't I ever shut up about it? It's just on this blog though. I'm allowed to, as long as it's just on this blog. It's my blog, and I'm just talking to myself, and I have these thoughts anyway, so I'm not hurting anybody by kind of hosing down the inside of my skull and spraying the scummy residue onto this page.

Distraction from Imminent Despair

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Zounds cried the astounded clown in a gown who was bound for down town as he frowned at the resounding sound of the renowned crown that he'd found as it wound up on a round mound surrounded by abounding brown ground near his half drowned hound from around the pound. Meh.